Salted, flimsy orange rinds,
bittered instead of sweetened:
these are all I eat nowadays.
Crystalline textures coat my insides,
my blood pressure’s at an all-time high,
and my tensions are shooting through the roof.
By god, I’m so naïve,
So untouched by anything other than this,
it seems unlikely
that I would taste such saccharine things,
I’d be much more inclined to shrivel up my insides,
dehydrate all my limbs and pack them
like raw meat in a harsh winter.
I feel useless again.
this poem might as well be the poem wilted's long lost cousin
